by Val McDermid
Carol opened the gate and waved the two of them through. If Tony had thought her words had prepared him for the sight inside, one look told him otherwise. It was grotesque, made all the more so by the unnatural absence of blood. Logic screamed that a body so broken should be an island in a lake of gore, like an ice cube in a Bloody Mary. He had never seen a corpse so clean outside a funeral parlour. But instead of being laid out calm as a marble statue, this body was twisted into a loose-limbed parody of the human frame, a disjointed puppet left lying where it fell when the strings were cut.
When the two men entered the yard, the police photographer stopped snapping and gave John Brandon a nod of recognition. ‘All right, Harry,’ Brandon said, seemingly undaunted by the sight before him. No one could see the hands clenched into tight fists in the pockets of his waxed jacket.
‘I’ve done all the long-and medium-range stuff, Mr Brandon. I’ve just got the close-ups to go,’ the photographer said. ‘There’s a lot of wounds and bruising; I want to make sure I’ve got it all.’
‘Good lad,’ Brandon said.
From behind them, Carol added, ‘Harry, when you’ve done that, can you snap all the cars parked up in the immediate area?’
The photographer raised his eyebrows. ‘The lot?’
‘The lot,’ Carol confirmed.
‘Good thinking, Carol,’ Brandon chipped in before the scowling photographer could say anything more. ‘There’s always the outside chance that me laddo left the scene on foot or in the victim’s car. He might have left his here to collect later. And photographs are that much harder for the defence brief to argue with than a bobby’s notebook.’
With a sharp snort of breath, the photographer turned back to the corpse. The brief exchange had given Tony time to get a grip on his churning stomach. He took a step closer to the body, trying to glean some primitive understanding of the mind that had reduced a man to this. ‘What’s your game?’ he said inside his head. ‘What does this mean to you? What translations are going on between this broken flesh and your desire? I thought I was the expert in keeping things battened down, but you’re something else, aren’t you? You are truly special. You’re the control freak’s control freak. You are going to be one of the ones they write books about. Welcome to the big time.’
Recognizing that he was dangerously close to admiration for a mind so disturbingly complex, Tony forced himself to focus on the realities of what lay before him. The deep slash to the throat had virtually decapitated the man, leaving the head tilted as if hinged at the back of the neck. Tony took a deep breath and said, ‘The Sentinel Times said they all died from having their throats cut. Is that right?’
‘Yes,’ Carol said. ‘They were all tortured while they were still alive, but it’s the throat wounds that have been fatal in each case.’
‘And have they all been as deep as this?’
Carol shook her head dubiously. ‘I’m only completely familiar with the second case, and that was nowhere near as violent a gash as this. But I have seen the photographs of the other two, and the last one was nearly this bad.’
Thank God for something recognizably textbook, Tony thought. He took a couple of steps back and scanned the area. The body aside, there was nothing to distinguish it from the back yard of any other pub. Crates of empties were stacked against the walls, the lids on the big industrial wheelie bins were firmly closed. Nothing obvious taken away, nothing obvious left behind except for the corpse itself.
Brandon cleared his throat. ‘Well, everything seems to be under control here, Carol. I’d better go and have a word with the press. I saw Penny Burgess trying to rip the sleeve out of your coat when I got here. No doubt the rest of the pack are baying at her heels by now. I’ll see you back at HQ later. Drop by my office. I want to have a chat with you about Dr Hill’s involvement. Tony, I’ll leave you in Carol’s capable hands. When you’re finished here, maybe you can arrange a session with Carol so she can go through the case files.’
Tony nodded. ‘Sounds good. Thanks, John.’
‘I’ll be in touch. And thanks again.’ With that, Brandon was gone, closing the gate behind him.
‘You do profiling, then,’ Carol said.
‘I try,’ he said cautiously.
‘Thank God the powers that be have finally seen sense,’ she said drily. ‘I was beginning to think they’d never get round to admitting we’ve got a serial killer on our hands.’
‘You and me both,’ Tony said. ‘I was worried after the first one, but I’ve been convinced since the second one.’
‘And I suppose it’s not your place to tell them that,’ Carol said wearily. ‘Bloody bureaucracy.’
‘It’s a sensitive point. Even when we have a national task force set up, I suspect we’re still going to have to wait for the individual police forces to come to us.’
Carol’s reply was cut off by the banging of the yard gate as it was thrown open. They both swung round. Framed in the doorway was one of the biggest men Tony had ever seen. He had the solid brawn of a prop forward run to seed, his beer gut preceding his massive shoulders by a good half-dozen inches. His eyes protruded like boiled gooseberries from a fleshy face, the source of Detective Superintendent Tom Cross’s nickname. His mouth, like that of his cartoon namesake, was an incongruously small cupid’s bow. Mousey hair fringed a bald spot like a monk’s tonsure. ‘Sir,’ Carol greeted the apparition.
Pale eyebrows furled in a discontented scowl. Judging by the deep lines between his brows, it was a familiar expression. ‘Who the bloody hell are you?’ he demanded, waving a stubby finger at Tony. Automatically, Tony noted the bitten nail. Before he could respond, Carol spoke smartly. ‘Sir, this is Dr Tony Hill from the Home Office. He’s responsible for the National Crime Profiling Task Force feasibility study. Dr Hill, this is Detective Superintendent Tom Cross. He’s in overall charge of our murder enquiries.’
The second half of Carol’s introduction was drowned out by Cross’s booming response. ‘What the hell are you up to, woman? This is a murder scene. You don’t let any old Tom, Dick or Home Office penpusher walk all over it.’
Carol closed her eyes fractionally longer than a blink. Then she said in a voice whose cheerful tone astonished Tony, ‘Sir, Mr Brandon brought Dr Hill with him. The ACC thinks Dr Hill can help us profile our killer.’
‘What d’you mean, killer? How many times do I have to tell you? We’ve not got a serial killer loose in Bradfield. We’ve just got a nasty bunch of copycat queers. You know what the trouble is with you fast-track graduates?’ Cross demanded, aggressively leaning towards Carol.
‘I’m sure you’ll tell me, sir,’ Carol said sweetly.
Cross stopped momentarily, with the slightly baffled air of a dog who can hear the fly but can’t see it. Then he said, ‘You’re all desperate for glory. You want glamour and headlines. You don’t want the bother of proper coppering. You can’t be arsed grafting on three murder enquiries so you try to knock ’em all into one to minimize the effort and maximize the press coverage. And you,’ he added, wheeling round towards Tony. ‘You can remove yourself from my crime scene right now. The last thing we need is bleeding-heart liberals telling us we’re looking for some poor sod who wasn’t allowed to have a teddy bear when he were a lad. It’s not mumbo jumbo that catches villains, it’s police work.’
Tony smiled. ‘I couldn’t agree more, Superintendent. But your Assistant Chief Constable seems to think that I can help you target your police work more effectively.’
Cross was too old a hand to fall for civility. ‘I run the most effective team in this force,’ he retorted. ‘And I don’t need some bloody doctor telling me how to catch a bunch of homicidal poofters.’ He turned back to Carol. ‘Escort Doctor Hill off the premises, Inspector.’ He managed to make her rank sound like an insult. ‘And when you’ve done that, you can come back here and fill me in on what you’ve managed to find out about our last killer.’
‘Very good, sir. Oh, by the way, you might like to join th
e ACC. He’s giving an impromptu press conference round the front.’ This time, the sweetness was tinged with acerbity.
Cross gave a perfunctory glance at the body lying exposed in the yard. ‘Well, he ’s not going any place, is he?’ he remarked. ‘Right, Inspector, I’ll expect a report just as soon as I’ve finished with the ACC and the press.’ He turned on his heel and stormed out as noisily as he’d arrived.
Carol put a hand on Tony’s elbow and steered him out of the gate. ‘This is going to be worth seeing,’ she muttered in his ear as she ushered him down the alley in Cross’s wake.
Half a dozen reporters had joined Penny Burgess behind the yellow plastic tapes. John Brandon faced them. As they grew closer, they could hear the cacophony of questions the press were hurling at the ACC. Carol and Tony hung back as Cross pushed past a constable standing at Brandon’s shoulder and shouted, ‘One at a time, ladies and gentlemen. You’ll all get heard.’
Brandon half turned towards Cross, his face expressionless. ‘Thank you, Superintendent Cross.’
‘Have we got a serial killer loose in Bradfield?’ Penny Burgess demanded, her voice cutting through the momentary quiet like the cry of some bird of ill omen.
‘There’s no reason to suppose…’ Cross started.
Brandon cut across him icily. ‘Leave this to me, Tom,’ he said. ‘As I said a moment ago, this afternoon we have found the body of a white male in his late twenties or early thirties. It’s too soon to be one hundred per cent certain, but there are indications that this killing may be connected to three previous homicides that have taken place in Bradfield over the last nine months.’
‘Does that mean you’re treating these murders as the work of one serial killer?’ asked a young man with a tape recorder thrust forward like a cattle prod.
‘We are examining the possibility that one perpetrator is responsible for all four crimes, yes.’
Cross looked as if he wanted to hit someone. His hands were bunched into fists at his sides, his brows so low they must have cut his vision to a slit. ‘Though it’s only a possibility at this stage,’ he said mutinously.
Penny chipped in ahead of the opposition again. ‘How will this affect your approach to the investigation, Mr Brandon?’
‘As of today, we will be amalgamating the three previous murder enquiries with this latest one into a single major incident task force. We will be making full use of the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System computer to analyse the available data, and we are confident that this will enable us to develop new leads,’ Brandon said, his lugubrious face belying the optimism in his voice.
‘Yo, go for it,’ Carol muttered under her breath.
‘Haven’t you left it a bit late? Hasn’t the murderer had a head start because you wouldn’t acknowledge he was a serial killer?’ a voice from the rear of the pack shouted angrily.
Brandon squared his shoulders and looked stern. ‘We’re policemen, not clairvoyants. We don’t theorize ahead of the evidence. Rest assured, we will be doing everything within our power to bring this killer to justice as swiftly as is humanly possible.’
‘Will you be using a psychological profiler?’ It was Penny Burgess again. Tom Cross shot Tony a look of pure hatred.
Brandon smiled. ‘That’s all for now, ladies and gentlemen. There will be a statement later from the force press office. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’ve got a lot of work to do.’ He nodded benevolently towards the press, then he turned away, taking Cross firmly by the elbow. They walked back towards the alley, Cross’s back rigid with fury. Carol and Tony followed a few paces behind. As they went, Penny Burgess’s voice rang out behind them. ‘Inspector Jordan? Who’s the new boy?’
‘God, that woman doesn’t miss a trick,’ Carol muttered.
‘I’d better keep out of her way, then,’ Tony remarked. ‘Me ending up front-page news could be a serious health hazard.’
Carol stopped in her tracks. ‘You mean the killer could target you?’
Tony grinned. ‘No. I mean your Chief Constable would have an apoplexy.’
The irresistible urge to mirror his smile hit Carol. This man was unlike any Home Office Jobsworth she’d ever encountered. Not only did he have a sense of humour, he didn’t mind being indiscreet. And close up, he definitely fell into the category her friend Lucy described as ‘a bit chewy’. He was showing signs of being the first interesting man she’d met in the Job for a very long time. ‘You could be right,’ was all she said, managing to sound noncommittal enough for her words not to be held against her.
They reached the corner of the alley in time to see Tom Cross round on Brandon. ‘With respect, sir, you just contradicted everything I’ve been telling them buggers since this sideshow started.’
‘It’s time for a different approach, Tom,’ Brandon said coolly.
‘So why not discuss it with me instead of making me look a dickhead in front of that mob? Not to mention my own men.’ Cross leaned forward belligerently. His hand strayed upwards, index finger pointed, as if he were going to stab Brandon in the chest with it. But common sense careerism prevailed, and the hand dropped back by his side.
‘You think if I’d had you in my office and suggested a different approach I’d have got one?’ There was steel beneath the mildness in Brandon’s voice, and Cross recognized it.
His lower jaw jutted. ‘At the end of the day, operational decisions are down to me,’ he said. Beneath the belligerence, Tony pictured a small boy, an aggressive bully resenting the adults who still had the power to sort him out.
‘But I’m the ACC Crime and the buck stops with me. I make the policy decisions, and I’ve just made one that happens to impact on your sphere of operations. From now on, this is one single major incident enquiry. Is that clear, Tom? Or do you want to take it further?’ For the first time, Carol saw for herself how John Brandon had climbed so far up the greasy pole. The threat in his voice was no empty posturing. He was clearly prepared to do whatever it took to achieve his ends, and he acted with all the assurance of a man used to winning. There was nowhere left for Tom Cross to go.
Cross rounded on Carol. ‘Have you got nothing better to do, Inspector?’
‘I’m waiting to make my report, sir,’ she said. ‘You told me to wait for you after the press conference.’
‘Before you get into that… Tom, let me introduce you to Dr Tony Hill,’ Brandon said, motioning Tony to come forward.
‘We’ve met,’ Cross said, sullen as a schoolboy.
‘Dr Hill has agreed to work closely with us in this investigation. He’s got more experience in profiling serial offenders than just about anybody else in the country. He’s also agreed to keep his involvement under wraps.’
Tony gave a self-deprecating, diplomatic smile. ‘That’s right. The last thing I want is to turn your enquiry into a sideshow. If there’s any credit going when we nail this bastard, I want it to go to your team. They’ll be the ones doing the work, after all.’
‘You’re not wrong there,’ Cross muttered. ‘I don’t want you under our feet, getting in the road.’
‘None of us want that, Tom,’ Brandon said. ‘That’s why I’ve asked Carol to act as liaison officer between Tony and us.’
‘I can’t afford to lose a senior officer at a time like this,’ Cross protested.
‘You’re not losing her,’ Brandon said. ‘You’re gaining an officer with a unique overview of all the cases. Could prove invaluable, Tom.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I better be off. The Chief’s going to want a briefing on this one. Keep me posted, Tom.’ Brandon sketched a wave and stepped back into the street and out of sight.
Cross pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit up. ‘You know your trouble, Inspector?’ he said. ‘You’re not as smart as you like to think you are. One step out of line, lady, and I’ll have your guts for a jock strap.’ He took a deep drag of his cigarette and leaned forward to blow smoke in Carol’s direction. The gesture was ruined by the gust of wind that snatched the
smoke away before it reached her. Looking disgusted, Cross turned on his heel and marched back to the scene of the crime.
‘You meet a nice class of person in this job,’ Carol said.
‘At least I know now which way the wind blows,’ Tony replied. As he spoke, he felt a drop of rain on his face.
‘Oh shit,’ Carol said. ‘That’s all we need. Look, can we meet tomorrow? I can grab the files tonight and skim them beforehand. Then you can get stuck in.’
‘Fine. My office, ten o’clock?’
‘Perfect. How do I find you?’
Tony gave Carol directions, then watched as she hurried back down the alley. An interesting woman. And attractive too, most men would agree to that. There were times when he almost wished he could find an uncomplicated response in himself. But he’d long since gone beyond the point where he would allow himself to be attracted to a woman like Carol Jordan.
It was after seven when Carol finally made it back to headquarters. When she rang John Brandon’s extension, she was pleasantly surprised to find him still at his desk. ‘Come on up,’ he told her.
She was even more surprised when she walked through his secretary’s door and found him pouring two steaming mugs from the coffee maker. ‘Milk and sugar?’ he asked her.
‘Neither,’ she said. ‘This is an unexpected pleasure.’
‘I gave up smoking five years ago,’ Brandon confided. ‘Now it’s only the caffeine that holds me together. Come through.’
Carol walked into his office, fired with curiosity. She’d never been across the threshold before. The decor was regulation cream paint, the furniture identical to Cross’s office, except that here the wood was gleaming, free from scuffs, scratches, cigarette burns and the telltale rings left by hot cups. Unlike most senior officers, Brandon hadn’t decorated his walls with police photographs and his framed commendations. Instead, he’d chosen half a dozen reproductions of turn-of-the-century paintings of Bradfield street scenes. Colourful yet moody, often rain-soaked, they mirrored the spectacular view from the seventh-floor window. The only item in the room that ran true to expectation was the photograph of his wife and children on the desk. Even that was no posed, studio shot, but an enlargement of a holiday snap on board a sailboat. Deduction: in spite of the impression Brandon strove to give as a bluff, straightforward, conventional copper, he was actually far more complex and thoughtful under the surface.
